


Homing

by keraunoscopia



Category: Chicago Justice (TV), Law & Order: SVU
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Time Skips, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 10:39:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13832421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keraunoscopia/pseuds/keraunoscopia
Summary: Homing (adjective) the inherent ability of an animal to navigate towards an original location through unfamiliar areas.He doesn't know how, or why, but their lives seem to be on weaving paths, meeting for the briefest of moments, over and over again.





	Homing

**Author's Note:**

> Or, five times Sonny misses his chance, and the one time he doesn't.

1\. July 13th, 1999

Sonny shifts his weight from one foot to the other, puffing his chest a bit to try and look older as the bouncer gives his ID a scrutinizing look. It’s not the first time he’s tried to use it, and his buddy from the red light district had promised it would pass under even the most discerning eye, but still he can’t quite quell the nerve in his stomach reminding him that using a fake ID is definitely a felony. 

But the bouncer just hands the card back and grunts. Sonny takes it as approval and slips inside the club. Its humid, hotter than the July night outside. The music is deafening, a heavy thrumming pulse, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the strobe lights. Its grimy and packed full of sweaty men, baring more skin than Sonny usually sees on Midland beach. In comparison, Sonny’s outfit is modest, jean shorts cut off at mid thigh, a loose white v-neck tee already clinging to sweat slicked muscles. 

He knows he looks good, knows that the past few years out of high school have been kind to his gangly figure, he knows he’s turning heads as he crosses to the bar, the heavy thud of bass reverberating in his stomach. 

It’s taken him a while to get here. Not here as in the club, though trekking from Staten Island to Chelsea isn’t the easiest venture, but here. Okay being surrounded by a crowd of gay men, drunk and wanton and wanting. Sonny runs his hand through damp curls, grown out to his chin, and he leans on the bar, batting long eyelashes. He’s got an innocently coy expression on his face to draw the attention of the bartender. It works a little to easily and moments later he has a double rum and coke in hand. 

He scans the room quickly, trying to find his target for the night, whomever he’s going to end up fucking in the bathroom, or the alley outside. It’s why he comes here. Indulgent and anonymous. He hasn’t quite come to terms with the idea of love, or romance with another man, but he’s young and spry and sex is fun. 

His gaze falls on the end of the bar, a young looking boy sitting on a stool, two hands clenched tightly around a cheap bottle of beer. Sonny watches the boy flinch as a man in nothing but a pair of underwear brushes up behind him. 

Sonny gets it. He can almost see himself sitting across the bar, maybe a year ago it could have been him. Sonny downs his drink and leaves the glass on the bartop before walking over, sliding himself into the space between the boy and a fishnet clad man. 

“You old enough to be in here?” Sonny asks with a sly smirk. He knows the answer already, there’s no way the kid’s older than eighteen. 

“Got in, didn’t I?” He bites back through gritted teeth, not quite meeting Sonny’s eye. 

Sonny lets out an easy laugh, resting his elbow on the bar to get a better look at the boy’s face, “well I did too, and I’m only nineteen,” Sonny admits with an impish grin, tone dripping with innuendo. 

The boy looks up finally to catch sonny’s eyes, bright eyes blue and daring, “eighteen,” he relents easily and licks his lips even as a blush rises on his cheeks. 

“Is this your first time here?” Sonny asks, shifting in a little closer, quirking his lip. He can practically smell the acrid adrenaline on the boy’s skin, fight or flight giving way to the third option, frozen in place. Sonny raises an eyebrow curiously, he’s never had the opportunity to be someone’s first, and the thought carries a sort of exhilarating thrill. 

“No-yeah, I mean, I’m not. I was just…” the boy stumbles over his words and Sonny softens his expectations immediately. 

“Look, it’s hot as fuck in here,” Sonny peels his shirt away from his skin to make his point, and he notes the way the boy’s eyes trace the curve of his waist. “I’m going to go out for a smoke, come with me.” He digs the carton of cigarettes out of his pocket, not wanting the kid to get the wrong idea. 

The boy nods, and Sonny notes how pretty green his eyes are. They walk single file through the crowd, and Sonny smirks at how close the boy seems to crowd against his back, like he’s afraid of being lost to the mass of men. 

When they break out into the alleyway, Sonny can hear the sigh of relief.

“I’m Sonny,” he offers, holding out a cigarette to the boy-dirty blond he notes, Sonny hadn’t quite been able to tell under the strobe lights in the club. 

“Peter,” he offers in return, but refuses the cigarette. Sonny shrugs and lights it instead, inhaling deeply before he speaks again. “Walk with me? Down to the pier? I promise I’m not trying to fuck you, but you look like you’ve got some shit to get off your chest.” 

Peter’s face flushes scarlet red, but he nods his agreement, and they set off at an easy pace. Sonny shoves his hands into the pocket of his shorts. 

“So spill it, blondie, why you sitting in a gay club in Chelsea like you’ve already got a dick in your ass?” Sonny grins as the flush deepens on Peter’s cheek. He’s sympathetic, really, but it’s so easy to get a rise out of him, and Sonny sort of likes that his words have such an affect. 

“I… I don’t know. I was curious. My dad would kill me if he found out I was here…” Peter trails off, and even in the dark of the moonless night Sonny can see the pier coming into view. He focuses on that, instead of turning to look at him. 

“Mine too,” Sonny just shrugs. 

That takes Peter by surprise, apparently, and he whips his head around to look at Sonny, but he just takes another drag off the cigarette. “Really?” Genuine disbelief. 

“Yeah. Italian Catholics, the lot of them. My pops would be dragging my ass to confession every day if he had any suspicion. But it doesn’t change shit about who I am, ya’know?”

“Irish Catholic,” Peter shrugs, “I’m not sure he’d even give me a chance to repent.” 

“Look, Pete. You can deny it all you want, but I’ve never known a straight guy to be curious enough to end up in a gay club in Chelsea. Not that you gotta do something about it, but take it from experience. Just admitting it to yourself feels like a giant weight off your shoulders.” Sonny takes one last drag off the cigarette and pauses on the pier, flicking the butt over the edge. 

“It gets easier?” Peter asks softly. 

“I’m still trying to figure out how much, but yeah, a bit at least,” Sonny’s expression softens. “Look I’m gonna head back to the club. Feel free to join, or don’t, it’s up to you, no expectation.” 

“I’ll stay,” Peter shakes his head, and Sonny can’t blame him, the club is a lot to handle, but that doesn’t alleviate the disappointment. 

“Well, if you ever figure it out, you should come find me.” Sonny winks before heading back down the darkened street, wondering for just a moment if it’s a mistake to leave. 

2\. March 24th, 2003

A cool breeze cuts through the stadium, a welcome relief from the sun’s scorching rays, already unseasonably hot. Sonny settles down into the hard plastic seat, only to jump back up immediately to cheer as the Mets hit a home run, the three players already on bases rounding home too. He has an arm full of drinks and food, and as he settles down with the crowd, he doles out the spoils to his friends, decked out in orange and blue. 

He’d just finished up at the police academy, and to celebrate, he and a couple buddies had made the trek to Chicago to see the Mets first away game of the season. The next batter up is a disappointing out and the third of the inning, Sonny notes with his mouth full of hotdog. The Cubs 

They’re heading into the sixth inning, and the game has already been going for three hours. They’re down by five runs which really isn’t a great sign, Sonny doesn’t have much hope that the Mets will pull through, but he hasn’t done a whole lot of looking into the Cubs. 

Music he doesn’t recognize plays over the speakers, and he hears the announcer call out the name of the relief pitcher. The name doesn’t mean much of anything to him, Peter Stone, the Cubs new relief pitcher. He doesn’t know of him, doesn’t know his stats, doesn’t know what it’s going to mean for his team. But Sonny looks up, after finishing his hot dog, and wiping his face with a scrunched up napkin, and his mouth goes dry. 

He doesn’t look so young anymore, it’s been a few years, and time has been kind to him, filled out, rippling muscle filling out the uniform. Sonny swallows hard as his eyes track him on the jumbotron. Sonny’s surprised he recognizes him really, it was one night, four years ago. And he looks so different now. But Sonny hasn’t forgotten that face. Even after he walked back to the club, found a man who’d made peace already, and ended up in an alleyway on his knees, he couldn’t keep his mind off the boy. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Carisi,” one of his buddies elbows him hard, pulling Sonny from his thoughts. 

Sonny laughs it off, “can’t believe they think this guy’s going to be able to hold up against Piazza,” he plays off. It’s not that he’s retreated into the closet or anything, but these aren’t really friends, they’re going to be his coworkers, they’re going to be police officers. And he knows exactly what they think about people like him, because the ribbing in the academy isn’t exactly kind. It’s just easier, to let them think what they’re going to think. Easier to not correct them. He’s going to be a rookie, going to have to pay his dues. He’s not the most athletic, not the best shot, he doesn’t need to give anyone any more ammunition against him. 

Besides, how on earth would he explain this anyway? Explain that four years ago, when he was nineteen, he had run into this pitcher in a gay bar, that he’d been young and scared and Sonny had lectured at him, but apparently his words never landed, because Sonny knows there’s no out players in the major leagues. He wants to be disappointed. He’d always sort of held onto the idea that maybe they’d find each other later on, when they’d really come to terms with everything. 

But Sonny can’t really blame him, because Sonny’s done the same thing. 

He settles back into his seat and watches the first pitch, the first strike. He doesn’t want to root for him. This is his team, Peter’s playing against. But he can’t help the swell of pride in his stomach when he gets the first out. Sonny glances up at the screens again, the close up on his face, lips pursed with focus and careful determination, and on the screen his eyes just look dark, like they must be brown. Sonny knows better. That mossy shade of green is a color he hasn’t seen anywhere since, but it’s burned into his memory, sometimes sees it in his memory. 

The game ends without the upset they were hoping for, the Mets end up down by three and it’s a disappointing loss, sure. Sonny’s buddies head to the bathrooms, and agree to meet out front to head back to the hotel before heading out for conciliatory drinks. Sonny heads to the line, where everyone is gathering to try and get baseballs and mitts and jerseys signed. That’s not really why Sonny finds his way there, if he’s being honest with himself, he wants to catch another glimpse, a closer one of Peter. 

The crowd thins towards the end, and Sonny hasn’t seen him. Really, he’s about ready to pack it up and find his friends when he catches green eyes. He watches Peter do a double take, and knows it means he’s recognized him too. Sonny leans over the fence with an uncapped sharpie. “Hey,” he calls out, and Peter steps towards the fence. “Can I get a signature?” His lips curl back into a grin. 

“Sonny,” Peter breathes out, and Sonny’s stomach churns, because Peter doesn’t just recognize his face, but remembers him, remembers his name. “What am I supposed to sign?” his lip quirks, a hint of a smile, and he adjusts his cap before taking the sharpie from Sonny’s hand. 

Sonny pauses for a moment because he hasn’t thought this through. He doesn’t have a mitt, or a baseball. And the crowd has thinned some, and Peter’s not a popular player yet, not drawing the sort of attention that other players are, but still there are people around, so Sonny can’t cheekily suggest a body part. Instead he turns, and motion’s to his back. 

Peter laughs, a loud hearty chuckle that Sonny can swear he can feel in the pit of his stomach. “You’re not going to be able to go back to New York,” he remarks, but signs his name on his Mets jersey over his shoulder, and Sonny can’t help but shiver under the contact, Peter’s free hand splayed over his back to steady him. “They’re gonna call you a blood traitor.” 

Sonny turns around with a smirk, Peter’s not wrong but Sonny can’t bring himself to care. “I guess I just won’t be able to wear it again.” He shrugs his shoulders. And he wants to ask Peter to meet him later, after he’s cooled down, and changed out of the uniform, but Sonny knows he can’t. He has to meet back up with his friends, the ones who would definitely stop inviting him out for drinks, inviting him to the games, into their fantasy league, if they had any indication that Sonny wasn’t straight. 

And he’s sure Peter has a similar thought process, not necessarily about him, but men in general. So instead, Sonny thanks him, and winks a bit suggestively before taking the sharpie back. “I mean this is Cubs country,” Peter comments, “but you still might not make it out of here alive. Might want to take the jersey off, just to be safe.” 

Sonny blinks at the suggestion. It’s presented casually, achingly innocent, but Sonny knows better. Still, before he can muster up a response, Peter has slipped away, into the clubhouse no doubt. Sonny just shakes his head, more to himself than anything. Not this time either. 

3\. February 4th, 2008

“I don’t see why you needed me to come with you,” Bella rolls her eyes as they step out of the rental car, both bundled tightly in wool pea coats, and hats and scarves. The windy city lives up to its name, of course. He hadn’t expected Chicago to be this much colder than New York, a grave mistake, apparently. 

“You came all the way to Chicago with me, and now you’re going to whine about coming on the tour, you know, the whole damn reason we’re here,” Sonny rolls his eyes, looking down at the packet in front of him, flipped open to a map of the campus. 

“Yeah but when I agreed to come I didn’t know it was going to be the fucking antarctic, Sonny,” she scowls further, and presses against his side, seeking to sap any possible warmth he has left. “Which building are we supposed to go into?” 

Sonny growls and leads her towards one of the buildings. He’s more guessing than anything. For all his finesse at getting around New York City, navigating college campuses is foreign to him. St. John was small enough to make it easy. This is a different world entirely. He’s still not sure why he’s here, Northwestern seems like its a bit out of reach, even with his good grades and decent LSAT score. And really, he’s not sure he wants to go to law school at all. He’s still waiting to hear about about the results of his detective exam. 

His stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought as they duck into a building, a welcome safe harbor from the cold wind whipping at their flushed cheeks. Bella rubs her hands together, trying to warm up. He had always thought he wanted to be a cop. Except for that brief point when he had considered priesthood, back before he’d reconciled his interest in men. But the past few years haven’t been what he wanted, haven’t been the sort of work he expected. He spends so much time writing traffic tickets, busting kids for baggies of marijuana, just generally making people’s lives worse for petty shit. It’s not what he thought being a cop would entail. 

And as much as he’d always heard about brotherhood, about how much a family the force was supposed to be, Sonny’s never really felt like as much of an outsider as he does with them. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t really feel like he can be himself with them. Maybe it’s because of the comments he hears being made in the locker rooms, and in the showers, in the gun range, in the squad cars. If only they knew. No one would want to partner with him, no one would want to spend eight hours in a squad car drinking shitty coffee and eating bad street food with him. He knows he shouldn’t let it get to him, but it does anyway. 

“Can I help you?” a woman at the front desk asks, and Sonny breathes a sigh of relief, because yes, they absolutely need help because he has no desire to drag Bella back out into the cold without knowing where they’re going. 

“Yes, sorry, ma’am, I’m here for a law school tour? I’m not sure if we’re in the right place…” his words trail off because the woman looks away from him half way through his sentence, and starts shuffling through papers. She looks up again after a few moments and holds out a stack of papers. 

“Have a seat. You’re in the right place, we’re just waiting for your tour guide to show up,” she gestures to the little seating area and Bella follows him, settling down and curling in on themselves a bit to get the chill out of their bones. Bella just whispers more curses under her breath, but Sonny’s not bothered, knows her well enough to know all the threats are empty. 

Sonny checks his watch, and then checks it again, and his foot taps against the tile floors impatiently, because ten minutes pass, and then twenty. It’s been nearly half an hour since their scheduled time when a student arrives in a flustered whirlwind of apologies and Sonny prepares to bite back his growing attitude because he doesn’t want to make a bad impression. 

“So sorry, I got caught up in the library and completely lost track of time,” the man explains, offering a hand to Sonny, but the bright smile falters a bit. “I’m Peter, I’m a third year here, are you both prospective students?” 

He offers his hand to Bella first, who shakes it with an intrigued smile, and then he turns to Sonny, hesitating for just a split second. Sonny feels like the air has been sucked out of his lungs, because its been years, but he still could never forget those green eyes, like forest underbrush, sunlight hitting a waxy leaf. If Peter recognizes him, he doesn’t show it, and Sonny just shakes his hand slowly. 

“No just me, I’m Dominick Carisi, call me Sonny, this is my sister Bella, just along for the ride,” he replies easily, trying to get his stomach to settle. He wonders if the nickname will spark anything, it’s not quite common enough to pass off as coincidence if Peter remembered who he was. But no indication of recognition flashes across his face, and he doesn’t say anything. 

Sonny wants to sigh but bites it back. He really shouldn’t be surprised. It’s his own weird fixation really, on this boy, now man, he’d met in a club all those years ago. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from tracking the man’s short but impressive baseball career. There had been rumors of where he’d ended up, having dropped out of the public eye after his forced retirement, but Sonny hadn’t ever expected to find him here, at Northwestern Law School. 

“Maybe we can convince you to apply by the end of the tour,” Peter adds flirtatiously, kind smile reaching those green eyes. Bella flushes bright pink, but Sonny’s stomach siezes with jealousy. He knows it’s stupid, that two missed chances, and the fact that he doesn’t even remember him are enough to tell him that Peter’s never been interested in him the way he was interested in Peter. 

“You’ll have to wait a couple years, I haven’t even finished undergrad,” Bella returns to her usual biting snark and Sonny’s a bit relieved that she’s not totally taken by his charm. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d had crushes on the same person, but Sonny doesn’t even want to dignify this curiosity he has with Peter as anything close to a crush. 

Peter laughs at that though, and begins to guide them around the building, and then out into the biting cold, but Sonny doesn’t even register the sting on his face as they move from building to building, his focus it pointed too closely on the man, his casual ease, the comfortable way he talks about the school, about his classes. It seems crazy to Sonny, that he could have so much in common with some stranger he’d met one time nearly a decade ago, but he’s blown away again, by his intelligence, and thoughtfulness, and it makes his stomach churn even more uncomfortably when he checks his watch and realizes they have a plane to catch. 

Bella heads to the car in a frantic walk, chilled to the bone already, and Sonny turns to go after a quick thank you, but Peter catches his forearm, and Sonny turns back around, tension melting out of his shoulders at the soft look Peter’s giving him. The man doesn’t even need to say anything because Sonny knows now, that he recognizes him. 

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of your sister, wasn’t sure if she knew. But I…” Peter trails off for a moment, for the first time the whole day struggling for words, “if you end up here, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything. I’m not out here, I don’t want to be.” 

Sonny furrows his brow, because he’d never, but of course Peter can’t know that, they really know nothing about each other. Still, it’s not the words he was hoping for, maybe a phone number, or a “look me up if you’re ever back in town.” But it is what it is, and its enough. “Of course,” Sonny nods, and heads back to the car. 

4\. November 23th, 2016

Really, he loves being a detective, he’s loved it since his very first day in homicide, even if it got to be a bit too much, even if each crime scene made his stomach clench and his eyes glaze over with that sort of haunted look. He loves it because he gets to help people, and what he loves most about moving to SVU is that he gets to help people while they’re still alive. Not always, must most often. It means there’s still hope, still time to heal, time to recover. 

And he liked the other boroughs, even though they hadn’t liked him. But he was slowly finding a home at Manhattan SVU, there since August. They hadn’t liked him much at first either, Sonny knew that of course, he just couldn’t seem to make a good first impression anymore, but they’d since opened up a bit, Rollins didn’t seem to resent him as much as she had, Fin was silent acceptance, and Benson seemed to be open to letting him stay for longer. 

But really, being a detective had its downfalls, a lot of them. But at the present moment, Sonny thinks that this is the worst of all, having to spend holidays away from his family, at the precinct. The new guy always pulls the short straw, he knows that much too, he’s been the new guy often enough. So instead of turkey and mashed potatoes, and dressing and his Ma’s lasagna on Staten Island, he’s stuck pushing papers across his desk and watching the clock stagger forward, like each tick of the second hand is holding on as long as it can. 

It’s nearly nine o’clock when he finally gets the call from Benson that if he’s finished the paperwork he needed to get through, he can go home. And yeah, he finished it ages ago, and he’s been doing nothing but sitting at his desk, rolling a baseball back and forth across the top. He grabs his coat immediately after hanging up the phone, but then he freezes, because where is he going to go? It’s too late to go to Staten Island, even though he knows the wealth of leftovers that are certainly stacked up in his parents’ fridge, but they’re all undoubtedly settling in with espresso and glasses of red wine, and by the time he gets there they’d all be happy drunk and ready to sleep. 

Still though, he doesn’t want to go back to his apartment. Going back to his apartment means eating leftover take out on his second hand couch, unable to deny the crippling feeling of being alone on a holiday he loves as much as Thanksgiving. He still hasn’t figured out where to go when he heads outside into the brisk night air, and he wanders for a bit before he spots the neon glowing open sign in the window of a bar- Forlini’s. The squad’s been there a few times, he knows their go to ADA is fond of it. So Sonny shrugs to himself and heads inside. Sitting in a bar with other lonely people has to be better than sitting home alone. 

Sonny settles down at the bar, and his elbow brushes against the arm of the man sitting in the next seat He turns to apologize, but the words catch in his throat, because of all the bars in the city, somehow he’s ended up elbow to elbow with Peter Stone. Peter glances over at him too, and his green eyes widen with recognition. Even after all this time, eight years or so, Sonny knows that Peter knows exactly who he is. 

“This isn’t Chicago,” Sonny’s lips curl into a grin, and he knows that it’s a lame comment, but he can’t think of anything else to say. There’s too much and too little in the silence between them. 

“Just in town for the holidays,” Peter replies, and gestures to the bartender, “whatever he wants, you can add it to my tab.” 

Sonny moves to protest, but a quick flash of moss green eyes silence him into submission, and he orders bourbon, on the rocks. “Thank you,” Sonny turns back to look at him. He’s not sure how it’s possible that the man has only gotten more attractive, more distinguished with age. He carries himself with a confident sort of poise that Sonny hadn’t noticed the last time they crossed paths. He can’t help but wonder if Peter’s out now, if the confidence comes from authenticity in a way that Sonny hasn’t been able to admit yet. 

“You’re a detective,” Peter comments as he takes a sip of the whiskey in front of him. “I thought you were going to go to law school.” 

Sonny glances down, realizes he still has his gun and badge on his hip. “I ended up passing the detective exam, and pursued that, Manhattan SVU. But I’m in night school, Fordham Law,” he explains, nodding a thanks to the bartender who sets the heavy glass in front of him. “I’m assuming you managed to pass the bar?” His tone is light, teasing, but his chest clenches with the memories of the last time they saw each other. 

“I’m an Assistant State’s Attorney in Chicago, actually,” Peter explains. “I mostly work homicide cases though.” 

“I was in homicide for a while, but it was tough,” Sonny hangs his head, and takes a sip of his bourbon. “Not that SVU is easier, there’s just… more hope,” he shrugs his shoulders before turning to look at Peter again, and the soft smile directed at him nearly knocks Sonny off his seat. “What are you doing in a bar in New York on Thanksgiving, then, Peter?” 

Peter lets out a sardonic chuckle, “got into an argument with my dad. As petulant as that sounds. I was just in town really because my sister begged me to come home…” he paused, tilting his glass, watching the amber liquid cling to the sides. “My dad and I have never really gotten along, but I just couldn’t take it anymore, needed to get a breath of fresh air.” Peter paused, looking over at Sonny. “What about you, Detective? Why are you alone at a bar on Thanksgiving?” 

Sonny leaned his forearms against the bar, picking up his own glass again and taking a slow savoring sip. “Just got off duty, my parents are back in Staten Island, so too little too late,” he shrugs his shoulders. “Didn’t want to go home to an empty apartment.” Peter’s eyes flash with something dark, and if Sonny didn’t know better, he might have thought suggestive. 

“Well, I’ll take the company,” Peter smiles softly before he asks Sonny about law classes, and really, this is the first real conversation they’ve ever had, and Sonny’s floored by how easy it is to talk to him, how natural the conversation feels. One drink turns to two, and then three and four, and Sonny’s cheeks hurt from smiling so wide for so long, the crinkles around his eyes feel permanently etched in. 

When he finally thinks to check his watch, he realizes it’s nearly one am. Peter’s eyes follow his glance, “what time is it?” And Sonny notices that Peter’s not wearing a watch, his sleeves now rolled up, tensed muscles under tanned skin. Sonny swallows hard. 

“Quarter to one,” he admits reluctantly. There’s a sort of spell that’s descended over them, and Sonny doesn’t want to break it yet, this easy rapport that’s developed between them. He has no idea how long it’s going to be before they see each other next. He’s certain they’ll meet again, but it’s been eight years since the last time. He could offer up his phone number, or an email address or literally any method of communication to keep in contact, but he can’t bring himself to do it, that’s not what this is. 

Sonny’s stomach churns. Better to have that constant lure of possibility than the harsh reality of rejection. 

“I should get going,” Peter sighs aloud, and digs a few twenties out of his pocket, leaving them on the bar top. 

Sonny wants to ask him not to go, but he can’t find the words, just smiles a goodbye and hopes the next time isn’t eight years from now.

5\. February 2nd, 2018

Really, Sonny has no idea what to think. The past few days have been a whirlwind of sudden change. Rafael Barba, murderer. Rafael Barba, baby killer. Not that he thinks those things, he understands why Rafael made the decision he made, even if Sonny doesn’t agree, even if he would never. Still, the idea that Rafael is going to be sitting on trial in four days is blowing his mind. 

“Is McCoy going to be prosecuting Barba’s case?” Sonny asks, leaning his ass against the edge of Amanda’s desk as they crowd around each other, the Lieutenant explaining what’s going on with the case. He can hardly believe it still, it feels surreal, like any moment he’s going to wake up from this twisted fever dream. But he’s already awake and what’s happening is happening. 

“No,” Benson shakes her head, “some guy out of Chicago, Peter Stone, I met him in the courthouse earlier,” the scowl on her face twists deeper. They all know this is hitting her hard, after everything that has happened lately, but still her words feel like a sucker punch straight to the gut. He wants to say maybe it’s not the same person, because what a world of coincidence would it be, Peter, his Peter, prosecuting his mentor. But what a world of coincidence would it be, for another lawyer from Chicago to be named Peter Stone. 

Sonny’s not good at statistics but even he knows the odds aren’t in his favor.

“You said Peter Stone?” Sonny furrows his brow, because he has to be sure. 

“Yeah, why, you know him?” Benson asks, brows furrowed, but Sonny shakes his head, and his fists clench. He can feel the anger, the hurt, bubbling in the pit of his stomach, and it only rises when Benson sends him to deliver documents to the DA’s office. 

He walks over, needs the cool air on his skin to calm the indescribable rage he can feel pulsing under his skin. It’s irrational, he knows it is, but he can’t help it, can’t help that by the time he’s entering 1 Hogan Place, his hand is tensed and curled around the file folder, bending it out of shape, and he’s _seething._

Sonny’s not sure if it’s coincidence, or serendipity or happenstance that the first face he sees past security is Peter. Peter who hasn’t aged a day since the last time they saw each other in the bar on Thanksgiving. Peter who’s mossy green eyes still hit Sonny square in the chest like a lightning bolt, but even can’t quell the anger, not now. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sonny tears out, chest puffed as he steps into Peter’s space. To his credit, Peter keeps the look of surprise on his face measured as Sonny charges at him, two fingers pointed and boring into his shoulder. Sonny hesitates for only a moment, because he doubts that Peter realizes the connection, and really he’s come out of nowhere, no explanation.

“You’re special counsel?” Sonny spits out with disdain, “you’re prosecuting Barba?” Anger doesn’t feel like it covers the depth of emotion Sonny can feel surging out of him, but really, he can feel it beginning to fade with the soft, confused look on his face. 

“Yeah, Jack asked me to, as a favor,” Peter replies softly, and Sonny withdraws his hand like he’s scalded, only just realizing how close they are, nearly nose to nose, he can smell mint and coffee on Peter’s breath, the clean, crisp scent of his cologne. “I was already in town for my dad’s funeral.”

Sonny opens his mouth to respond, but he catches, shoulder’s sagging out of his puffed posture, “I-I’m sorry to hear that,” his face softens. He knows from their previous run ins that Peter never had a good relationship with his father, but then Sonny’s always been sort of strained with his dad, and the terror he felt when his father had ended up in the hospital with a heart attack shook him to his core. 

“Thank you,” Peter nods. 

“You know he was just doing what he thought was best, thought was right,” Sonny adds, his voice wavering. “I’ve worked with him the entire time I’ve been at Manhattan SVU. He let me shadow him, helped me study for the bar, Peter, he’s really not a bad guy, he thought he was doing the right thing. Shouldn’t that count for something?”

Peter just frowns, and takes a step back, ushering Sonny towards a bench, and he sits, waiting for Sonny to follow suit. “Sonny,” he starts softly, “we both know that doesn’t matter. He knew what the law was. He knew he was breaking it, knew he’d have to face the consequences. What would it say, if I declined to prosecute? That there are some people who don’t deserve the protection of the law? How do we decide who gets it and who doesn’t? I need to do my job.” 

Sonny sighs heavily, because he knows Peter’s right even if he doesn’t want to face the music. Because he doesn’t want to confront the reality that his mentor, his friend might end up in jail for the rest of his life. “Does it have to be you?” It’s so childish, he hears it as soon as the words are out of his mouth, and he knows that Peter won’t know what to think of the comment. 

But Peter doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shy away, just leans in a little, drops a comforting hand to Sonny’s knee. “If it wasn’t me, it would be someone else. Jack’s already decided to go forward, he’d just pick someone else.” They sit in silence for a moment. “I thought you were going to law school.”

Sonny sighs again, and his hand moves reflexively to the badge on his belt, he knows it’s the giveaway. “I did. I passed the bar too.” 

“But you’re still a detective,” Peter cocks his head to the side, just a bit. 

“Yeah,” Sonny nods. 

“Why?” 

“I’m not sure anymore,” Sonny replies honestly, but Peter doesn’t seem to have a response to that. There’s another moment of silence, not awkward, but heavy, and Sonny stands up. “I have to go. I guess I’ll be seeing you around.” But he doesn’t wait to hear what Peter has to say before he walks away, file in hand.

6\. February 19th, 2018 

Sonny tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he makes his way down the street, shoulder bumping against the occasional pedestrian. The last few days had been interesting to say the least, the last few weeks really. The trial had finished, Rafael had been found not guilty, and still, he had decided to leave. Up and quit without a word to the squad. Sonny’s stomach twists at the thought, he’d probably said something to Liv. He and Rafael had been close once. Sonny had thought that maybe they’d get back to that, it seemed like they were, but Rafael’s office had been cleared before Liv had even bothered to mention anything to them. 

And, nobody had mentioned to him that Peter had decided to stay in New York. And not just stay in New York but stay on at the DA’s office in Manhattan, decided to work SVU cases. It means that the time between seeing him has gone from years to days in a matter of moments, and Sonny’s not sure what to think. 

Peter has always been a question mark, a what-if. He’s been limitless possibility passed off as bad timing, or the wrong geography. But that’s not here now. Sonny pulls his phone from his pocket to check his texts again. It’s still there, an innocuous message from anyone else, the name of a bar he’s never been to before, a time. Sonny’s checked the message five times since leaving the precinct, just to make sure he’s not fooling himself, just to make sure it’s still there. 

He looks up at the shop fronts he’s passing by, looking for the right place, the name inscribed in his mind now, La Diagonal, because he’s read the message so many times. Sonny finds it, finally, and his eyes widen in surprise as he brushes by Liv leaving the same bar. A coincidence, maybe, but he doubts it. Surely she was there to see the same person he’s here to see now. 

Really he’d recognize him anywhere. He has, time has proven that enough, so Sonny settles easily into the bar stool next to Peter, and glances over at the work sprawled out across the counter. 

“Just saw the Lieu walk out,” Sonny mentions before giving his order to the bartender, a glass of bourbon set in front of him in moments. 

“I apologized to her,” Peter responds, tucking his pen into the pad, and folding it closed to look at Sonny. His face has those hard lines and sharp edges etched into it, the ones he keeps seeing around the precinct, but they soften into something a bit more earnest. “She apologized to me.” He shrugs his shoulders, and Sonny gets it. Maintaining animosity is hard when you have to work together. 

“You don’t know the Lieu,” Sonny shrugs, “I think maybe she needed to hear what you had to say, even if Cassidy ended up alright in the end.” Sonny drains his glass in one long swig, and sets it on the countertop with a little more force than necessary. 

“Did you hear what Reggie said?” Peter’s inspecting his own glass now, turned away from Sonny. 

“What about?” Sonny furrows his brow, because really he’s not sure. He didn’t catch all of the confession, didn’t hear all of what Peter said, but he’d heard some, about letting down his family. Sonny’s stomach clenches, because he’s never thought to ask about anyone else. 

“He said that he didn’t tell anyone about the abuse, because he was afraid they’d think he was gay,” Peter swallows hard and sets his glass back down on the counter untouched. “And I want to say, what a ridiculous thought, no one would think that. And then I catch myself, because why am I not more concerned that a kid would rather suffer abuse in silence than be like me?” He turns his head again to catch Sonny’s eye. 

Sonny doesn’t know what to say that, the bravado and wisdom he’d had about existing as a gay man in New York City had peaked at age nineteen. Instead, he just stares back at Peter, because there’s near twenty years between them, twenty years of knowing, and accepting, and maybe that’s enough, but he look he gets back at him, it’s not desolate, no melancholy. It’s heavy lidded desire, it’s lust, it’s twenty years of wanting. And really he’s not sure who makes the first move, not sure how they end up in the bathroom of this bar he’s never been in, his back pressed up against the door, Peter pressed against him in a heated kiss. 

When they finally break apart, sucking in air, chests rising and falling with a sense of urgency, Sonny’s overwhelmed. He’s wanted this for so long, has told himself no for so long that he’s not sure he can really count on this being real. Peter’s hand is on the side of his neck, thumb against his cheek, and their hips are pressed together in that sort of way that makes his head spin. “I love you,” the words drip off Sonny’s tongue like nectar, but even still it echoes in the small room, sound like maybe somebody else said them. 

“You want me, Sonny, there’s a difference,” Peter replies with a quirked lip, but there’s something morose in his tone, longing. 

Sonny just shakes his head, hands resting on the sharp edges of Peter’s hips. “I’ve wanted you since that club in Chelsea twenty years ago, but I’ve loved you since the bar, on Thanksgiving,” he replies with a sort of gentle honesty. There’s no dodging now. This is it, Sonny can tell. If he doesn’t go for gold, this is the last chance he gets. Twenty years has been a long time coming. 

“Thanksgiving?” Peter tilts his head, but presses Sonny against the door in another searing, fleeting kiss. “Why then?”

Sonny pauses, because he knows it’s true, but he’s not really sure why, “I was having a hard time then. I’d been kicked around three other boroughs before I landed in Manhattan, and they hated me at first too. I was in Fordham, but not sure if law school was what I wanted. I missed my family, I wanted to be home. And then I walked into that bar, and I realized that there was nowhere else I’d rather be.”

“I love you too,” Peter sighs as he ducks his head to nip at the base of Sonny’s neck. 

“Really?” If Sonny had anywhere to go, he’d be backing away, because he wants to see Peter’s face, wants to look him in the eye and know that this isn’t some sort of twisted joke. But he has the solid weight of Peter against him, and the door behind him, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because he trusts him. Implicitly. 

“Since that very first day.”


End file.
